This is not a Night

This is not a night;
this is all there is,
and to fall asleep is suicide.
Tomorrow, someone else will assume my skin,
wear my voice, my face,
and this unwitting doppelgänger
will think these things his, or him.

I fear this other;
I fear what he will do with me.
Will he display my corpse in some
intersection of his mind, a ghastly warning
to passing thoughts of contented stagnation?
Will he consign me to the unmarked catacombs
of his subconscious, unworthy of our name
and ambitions?

I would like to walk with him;
as companions we could be so much more.
But then I remember what I have done 

with my own predecessor,
who now just stares at me mutely;
fatigued eyes glistening, inscrutable, oceanic.
Is it too late for a swim?

There is not much distance, or difference,
between losing and finding yourself.